Mother? Cyril’s mother? No; Nilah had met Missus Clowe at the previous year’s winner’s party. She was a dull woman, like her loser son. Nilah took a closer look at the wrinkled sneer poking out from under the mask.

Her voice was a slithering rasp. “Where did you get that map, Cyril?”

“Please. I wasn’t trying to double-cross anyone. I just thought I could make a little money on the side.”

Mother crouched and ran her metal-encased fingers around the back of his helmet. “There is no ‘on the side,’ Cyril. We are everywhere. Even when you think you are untouchable, we can pluck you from this universe.”

Nilah strained harder against her arcane chains, pulling more color into her body, desperate to get free. She was accustomed to being able to outrun anything, to absolute speed. Panic set in.

“You need me to finish this race!” he protested.

“We don’t need anything from you. You were lucky enough to be chosen, and there will always be others. Tell me where you got the map.”

“You’re just going to kill me if I tell you.”

Nilah’s eyes narrowed, and she forced herself to focus in spite of her crawling fear. Kill him? What the devil was Cyril into?

Mother’s metal fingers clacked, tightening across his helmet. “It’s of very little consequence to me. I’ve been told to kill you if you won’t talk. That was my only order. If you tell me, it’s my discretion whether you live or die.”

Cyril whimpered. “Boots… er… Elizabeth Elsworth. I was looking for… I wanted to know what you were doing, and she… she knew something. She said she could find the Harrow.”

Nilah’s gaze shifted to Mother, the racer’s eye movements sluggish and sleepy despite her terror. Elizabeth Elsworth? Where had Nilah heard that name before? She had the faintest feeling that it’d come from the Link, maybe a show or a news piece. Movement in the periphery interrupted her thoughts.

The ghastly woman swept an arm back, fabric tatters falling away to reveal an armored exoskeleton encrusted with servomotors and glowing sigils. Mother brought her fist down across Cyril’s helmet, crushing it inward with a sickening crack.

Nilah would’ve begun hyperventilating, if she could breathe. This couldn’t be happening. Even with the best military-grade suits, there was no way this woman could’ve broken Cyril’s helmet with a mere fist. His protective gear could withstand a direct impact at three hundred kilometers per hour. Nilah couldn’t see what was left of his head, but blood oozed between the cracked plastic like the yolk of an egg.

Just stay still. Maybe you can fade into the background. Maybe you can—